Desert Heat
by SnoopyGirl213
Summary: The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry. After the death of her beloved Uncle, Claire Beauchamp takes up his work to discover secrets hidden under the Egyptian sand. Egyptology AU set in the early 1920s.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: You may be asking yourself: "Syd, where is this coming from? Do you really think people will care?" and the answer is I don't know and I don't think so. But here it is.**

**Useful terms:**  
**dahabeah - a passenger boat typically used on the Nile,**  
**Shepherd's Hotel was a real hotel that most Egyptologists visited during the Archaeological Season.**

* * *

_January 1922_

The blue waters lapped gently along the sides of the dahabeah as the company drifted to their destination. She had never been one for frivolities-the only lesson Lamb hadn't needed to teach her in this line of work-but, if hard-pressed, she would admit that blue was her favorite color. Not just any old sky-blue or royal blue or the blue of forget-me-nots in a garden half-dreamt-or was it half-remembered? No, to her, the only blue that mattered was the blue of the Nile looking up at her at the start of the new season. Every year it called her, baptized her in its depths, promising discovery and recognition at last.

In past years, the last desire had been an elusive mistress. This season was different, though. Claire's resolve was steeled; she would see her work come to full fruition or die trying.

She was lost in her thoughts, staring into the water below, when a voice piped up at her elbow.

"Don't tell me you're thinking of throwing yourself in."

She jumped a little, but straightened soon enough. She refused to fall into the same patterns of other ladies, fainting at the slightest fright. She made a face at the man beside her. "Don't be ridiculous. Why would I do that now? Of all times."

John shrugged, leaning against the railing with his back to the river. "I wouldn't be surprised. You haven't been shaken in the slightest."

"And just what would I be shaken by?"

John didn't give an answer, but Claire knew her feeble attempt of playing dumb wouldn't fly.

"Claire, I know it's been a few months, and you say that you're fine. But it's alright- not to be fine. Especially coming here, to where-"

"What?"

"Well, this was his home, wouldn't you say? Even more so than Oxford or London. And-"

She buried her face in her hands. "What is it that you want from me, John? To lock myself in my cabin and cry?"

"Well, that would be a good deal better than threatening the Antiquities Director," she heard him mumble under his breath. She glared at him.

"Are you telling me I'm not entirely justified in this- this _act of thievery_?"

"I agree that the situation is not entirely ideal but-"

"'Not entirely ideal'? They've given half the site away! Lamb's site! Do you not know how long he waited and what he had to go through to get this site? Only for him to- to-" Her chin quivered and she felt the tears spill out of her eyes. She felt John's hand on her back and with a crack she slapped it away.

"Dammit!" she scream-whispered through her tears as she slammed her hands onto the railing.

"Claire, it's alright. Don't keep it in, it isn't healthy."

She sniffled and wiped her nose on the sleeve of her collared shirt. "Let me be the judge of what is or isn't healthy." She quirked a smile at him and wiped her eyes. She had always preferred men's clothing on excavations, and never saw any need to justify it to anyone in years past. But that had been when Lamb was in charge.

"In any other situation I would agree, _Sit_."

She looked back down at the water. The Nile looked and acted much the same as it had every season she'd tread this path, as it had been since the time of the pharaohs and before. But now, everything was different. She was different.

"It's not just Lamb, you know."

"I know."

"It's that damn St. Germaine in the Antiquities Department. He was only happy to take the site away."

Of course, John knew all this. He'd been an army man-intelligence-before taking up work with Quentin Lambert Beauchamp, the not-so-renowned archaeologist. His knack for languages, living and dead, wasn't bad. And he was charming as well as intelligent and knowledgeable, something Claire and Lamb had lacked desperately when dealing with Antiquities.

Despite being with them for the past five seasons, he listened to Claire's woes, god bless him.

"Now, now, the site isn't taken away. We can still proceed with Lamb's plans as instructed. We may just need a little time to plan around our neighbors." He swatted at the flies buzzing at his head and chuckled to himself. "At least we'll have someone to ask for a cup of sugar, eh?"

Claire cracked a smile at that. "Did you get the name of who it is we'll be sharing"-the word felt like a curse on her tongue-"our site with?" As soon as the Frenchman had told them about his plan to split the site, Claire had lost all sense of decorum, telling him off before storming out.

John rolled his eyes. "Some chap called Dougal MacKenzie, you may have heard of him and his companions."

"The Great Scot?"

"Himself, yes."

Claire shivered. Dougal MacKenzie's methods were notorious in archaeological circles. They said he only cared for one thing: Egyptian gold, and anything else he regarded as worthless trash.

"Who has he brought with him?" She often teased John for being the camp gossip, as he seemed to be able to get any information out of anyone and know everything about everyone. She was sure he would've done some digging at Shepherd's and likewise circles.

Her hunch was correct. "A translator and a photographer for sure, the latter being a woman, if you can believe it. And he's brought two others but I can't say for sure what they're exact roles are. Only that they seem very...imposing"

"Muscle then. To dig for gold."

John smirked. "And a historian too, I think. Jolly well, pity our numbers are so thin this year. Only me, you, and Fergus. Should've brought our historian, don't you think?"

She grimaced but said nothing. She could hardly picture Frank in Egypt, despite it being his field of study. He just didn't seem to fit.

"Have you heard from him?" John's tone was serious again.

"I telegraphed him that we had made it safely to Cairo and to not expect any speedy reply."

"Have you considered his...offer?"

She sighed and stared off into the setting sun. "I'd better go and freshen up before supper." She turned and started walking back to her cabin.

* * *

The Behribu Pit had been just a divot in the vast landscape of Egyptian desert until three years earlier when French authorities had caught thieves digging there. This was of little consequence in and of itself, but instead of more layers of sand where the thieves had been digging, they authorities claimed they saw something that looked like stone. A full excavation had commenced, spurned on by the excitement of a possible new site no one had read of before. A new tomb perhaps? Or something else? After three seasons of digging, archaeologists were baffled by their discovery. The site was divided up into an eastern and western halves. The eastern half was a building often referred to as the Behribu House. Though any archaeologist worth their salt would admit that any site was a good find, it was also of most of these same archaeologist's opinions that the western half of the Behribu Pit was the more intriguing: the Behribu Circle. A circle that at one time most likely been standing stones was there. Yes, if given the choice between the two halves-of which Claire Beauchamp had been forced to face this season-everyone would have agreed that the Circle was the one to go for.

Everyone, that is, except for Quentin Lambert Beauchamp. In the last years of his life, he had become convinced that the Behribu was the home of Dendera, a minor wife of Ramses II. Little was known about her, overshadowed as she was by the likes of Nefertari and Isetnofret-whose tombs had been discovered in the Valley of the Queens in 1904. Lamb had been determined to find out more about this Lost Queen and possibly even the location of her tomb.

Claire had never really understood Lamb's obsession with the House, with her own curiosity always being drawn to the Circle. And even then in her grief and stubbornness she was willing to admit that they could be the ravings of an old man. It had physically pained her to make the choice posed by John-really by St. Germaine, but by John as proxy-the day before they left. But as she vacillated on her perhaps one chance to make a three-year long obsession into reality, she realized she would never be able forgive herself for not fulfilling the work that had consumed the last years of Lamb's life. Though he had never been to the site, he had detailed layouts and plans-now instructions-and she was to follow them to the letter.

After unloading their gear and setting up their tents, Claire, Fergus, and John went into the village to recruit some workers. They were greeted by their foreman, who's Christian name was William, and were met with some terrible news.

"I'm afraid that your countrymen have already been here and recruited some of the best men."

"Blast," John cursed and Claire set her jaw.

"We'll take anyone that we can, how many could we expect?"

There were still a fair number of able-bodied men unemployed by their countrymen-as William had put it. It had appeared MacKenzie was not interested in number, but in size of the men. Claire couldn't help but wonder what it was exactly that he was planning on finding here, in the middle of nowhere.

With the main reason for their business being done, Claire took out her medical kit and started treating people. It was hard-pressed to find penicillin this far from a major city, though that might imply the people would follow basic hygienic principles. Though, she supposed, with water as such a precious resource, she couldn't blame them for taking their chances with a cut rather than dying of thirst.

The more things change, the more they stay the same, she told herself as she instructed a young mother on how to keep flies out of her daughter's eyes. Fergus attended her as he had always done. She half expected to turn and see Lamb, with his jolly amber eyes shining at her behind half-moon spectacles, his white beard already turning brown from sand. He would be exchanging jokes and laughing with the men, no doubt. She thought she could even hear them laughing now. It was so real that she turned and realized there was a group of local men, joking and laughing as she had seen many times before. Before she snapped her attention away, she swore she saw a glint of red amongst the turbans and dark brown hair.

* * *

She had made her way back to the camp with Fergus in-toe. John had seen to that the rest of their campsite was set up, with rugs and pillows in their tents.

"Milday," Fergus said softly. "If you do not require anything further, I would like to have a chance to unpack." He had always called her that, from when they first picked him up off the streets of Cairo-a pickpocketing orphan with a scholar's mind, fluent in French and Arabic, and enough English to get by. Lamb had taken the boy under his wing much like he had her when her parents had died. Since then, he had followed her around like a puppy. When she had been younger, she had resented it, but now she had nothing but love and respect for this man she saw as a brother. She had told him to leave after Lamb died, bidding him find his calling at the British museum or at a university, but he had refused to entertain the notion of leaving her.

_"And what would Lamb think, if I left you all alone now of all times? My place is with you, in Egypt."_

She told him to go now and caught John's eye. He casted an eye at Fergus as he walked away, then over to the cook at the fire in the center of camp, and finally at the tents on the other side of the ridge from them.

"What is it? I know that look," Claire said, schooling her features.

"I spoke to one of the men in the Scots' camp."

"And?"

"I get the feeling they know something we don't."

"That's impossible. Lamb knew everything about this place."

"That maybe so, but he seemed very determined to 'make amends,' his words, not mine. And he seemed very interested that we had someone with medical experience here."

"So? That just proves he's not a complete monster like St. Germaine." Claire snorted as she went into her tent.

John followed, but stood in the doorway. "I think he will propose we join forces."

"Like that will happen."

"Yes, I'm rather averse to the idea as well. I generally don't trust people that kind-hearted. But I thought I'd give you an update." He mentioned checking on supper and ducked out, leaving Claire to work on arranging her tools to be sterilized and cleaned.

It couldn't have been a few moments later before she heard the rustle of the tent flap again.

"Is it already ready?" she asked, turning and letting a small gasp escape her lips.

The man who stood before her was not John, but a stranger. He was big, tall with broad shoulders and a cleft chin at the end of a square jaw. Even under the dim light of the lamp in the tent, his red hair gleamed. He seemed just as surprised to see her as she felt.

He removed his hat and cleared his throat. "Apologies, Miss. I wasna expecting to find ye, but Mr. Grey instead."

A Scot! She thought as she crossed her arms over her chest. "You just missed him, but he'll be back shortly, Mr.-..."

"Fraser, Miss. James Fraser, and you?"

Mr. Fraser looked at her expectantly. Normally under similar circumstances Claire might ignore him or spit out something to the tune of _"Noneofyourgoddamnbusinessthankyouverymuch!"_ But his eyes, so blue, disarmed her.

"Claire." Her voice was rough and didn't sound like her own in her ears. "Claire Beauchamp."

His eyes lit up at that name and he nodded. "Ye canna be related to Quentin Beauchamp?"

She was taken aback. "You knew my Uncle?"

He colored a little and tapped his fingers against his hat. "Well, I didna ken him, only read his books. Verra informative." He smiled at her.

She nodded. She remembered again the circumstances of their situation and set her jaw. He seemed to notice.

"I- Allow me to apologize again, Miss Beauchamp. For your loss as well as the events that have caused us to be bedfellows-" His cheeks colored even deeper as the word tumbled out of his mouth. "I mean- Christ. Sorry lass- Miss! Again."

Claire eyed him up and down. "What is it that you do, Mr. Fraser?"

He chuckled to himself and rubbed the back of his neck. "Would ye believe me if I said I was a linguist? Though, I am not givin' the best impression of my abilities, I am aware."

She nodded. "I appreciate your apology, Mr. Fraser. But I'm afraid it does little to improve our situation."

He nodded.

"How many seasons have you seen?"

"Four, including this one."

She hummed and nodded. "Then, if you haven't learned already, resources can be very precious out here. Should tragedy strike, we will have no one to rely on other than each other. If you or your men acquire medical attention, please don't hesitate to say something. Pride does very little to stave off fever."

Mr. Fraser did not seem put off by her comment. In fact there was mirth in his eyes as a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, any embarrassment long forgot. This annoyed Claire more than she cared to admit. She turned back to her table.

"Yes, I've heard what the workers call ye: _Sit Hakeem_-the Lady Doctor."

She bit back a retort as she continued to straighten the equipment on the table. She was-should be-used to a man's attitudes by now.

"Of course, you already know that, cultured lady such as ye are." She glanced up at him. He shifted his weight from one leg to the other and crossed his arms over his chest. "Which brings me to the real reason why I'm trespassing into yer campsite here."

The heat in her cheeks deepened and she cleared her throat subtly as she straightened up. The sun must be getting to her.

"As ye may know, we brought along a lass this season: a Miss Marsali MacKimmie. Dougal wanted an artist to draw some of the paintings, so we've brought her along."

Claire made an approving sound in the back of her throat. "An artist? That's quite old fashioned of you, most use-"

"Cameras, aye, I'm aware. That was Dougal's thought too, originally. It was my recommendation to use an artist. I'm afeared of the flash may-"

"Dull the paint," Claire finished. He smiled and nodded. "And Dougal took your recommendation?"

He grimaced and shook his head. "Weel, I may be his nephew but he doesna always listen to me." This was new information to Claire. She watched him as he dug his toe into the carpet below his feet and tapped his fingers on his hat.

"And yet-...here Miss MacKimmie is."

"Aye."

"How'd you manage that? Did you smuggle her on board your dahabeah?"

He chuckled. "No, I- uh Dougal is a stone wall in most conversations, but his brother, Column, isna always so rigid."

"And Dougal will listen to Column?"

Mr. Fraser shrugged. "He has to, whether he wants to or no. Column, you see, is our financier."

Claire nodded in understanding. She knew Lamb often had struggles with various lords in order to keep the money coming in. "So, excuse me, Mr. Fraser, but what does that have to do with me?"

He looked at her, shocked for a moment and then seemed to remember. "I apologize, Miss Beauchamp, I was distracted. Where was I?"

"Miss MacKimmie?" Claire offered.

Mr. Fraser nodded and seemed to be at peace again. "Miss MacKimmie. What ye must understand, Miss Beauchamp, is that this is the lass's first season, maybe even her first journey away from home and-"

Claire balked and shook her head. "So, you want me to watch over her? Is that it?" He protested mildly, but she did not listen. "If she required a wet nurse, you should have brought one!"

His eyes flashed with anger but Claire stood her ground. "If you would allow me to continue." Claire gestured for him to continue. "I can mind the lass just fine, thank ye verra much. What I was hoping, what I am asking, that if she has any troubles she could come to ye without judgment or malice. Not as a 'wet nurse' as ye say, but as a friend." Claire grimaced at his much harsher tone and turned away, her ears burning. She heard Mr. Fraser take a step closer and she braced herself for what may come.

His voice was much softer and friendly than it had been before. "Surely you must've wanted for a friendly face your first time in this country."

"You mean a woman's face."

"Aye, I do. Alas, ye ken as well I do that they are not in abundance in our line of work, unfortunately. And if this lass finds comfort in looking up to a someone as educated and knowledgeable as you-" Claire snorted. "-there may yet be one more among that number. And one can just as easily turn to two, etcetera."

"Is this how you swindled Column into bringing her? Flattery?"

He chuckled slightly and Claire felt his breath as a cool breeze on the back of her neck. He shifted away from her, his voice raising to a normal volume. "I only ask your permission to suggest the lass go to you if-and only if-she finds herself struggling. Would you allow me that?'

Claire finally met his eyes and shrugged, trying to not let on how desperately she wanted to melt into the carpet. "So long as she does not interfere with my work, I don't see a problem with it."

"Of course, thank ye, truly, I will let the lass know." Mr. Fraser moved to take his leave before Claire opened her big mouth once again

"She must be quite gifted if you're doing so much for her." Her throat burned but she tried to school her features as she stood in the middle of the tent.

Mr. Fraser caught her eye. There was something in those blue pools that set fire to the butterflies in her stomach. "I've kent Miss MacKimmie for quite some time now, and I am verra fond of her, in truth. But my efforts to see her succeed dinna go beyond that fondness and belief in her abilities. She is a gifted-talented-woman, and god kens the world needs all that we can get." He paused for a moment, Claire didn't dare breath. "But, as it is, I remain without any attachments." He tilted his hat in goodbye and walked out of the tent.

Claire collapsed into a chair by the table and tried to still her beating her heart. She wasn't even sure if she was aware what truly just happened. She was lost in thought when John poked his head into the tent to tell her supper was ready.

Claire ate her supper thoughtfully, unsure how she was going to get through the next season.


	2. Chapter 2

It was always necessary for the company to rise early while on digs in order to get as much work done before the noon sun stifled and shriveled them up. It was necessary, but that did not mean Claire did not resent it. She tried to suppress yet another yawn as she worked to delicately unearth the stone under her.

Her dreams the night before had been hot, though she could not remember any details beyond the burning sensation in her chest and belly, as well as waking up in a sweat. She tried to brush it off as nerves and the heat. Even in the dead of winter, the Egyptian sun was unforgiving.

For now she tried to focus on the task at hand and the sound of the diggers, whose work was supervised by John across the site. Lamb's notes had proposed that there should be some sort of cellar–albeit crude–below the main level of the house. He had posited the entrance to be along the south-side of the building, where John and the diggers were currently working. Meanwhile, she and Fergus were carefully examining the rest of the building, even if just to see how much of Lamb's notes had been correct.

"Milady, you need to stop looking over at the other camp," Fergus warned as Claire yet again pulled her attention away from the other workers less than 100 yards away. She needed to get a grip and get over it, the choice had been made.

"I'm sorry, Fergus." The words felt heavy on her tongue. The choice had been made, yes, but had she even considered the others around her? Fergus and John? Should they not have such an honor in this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? She had never been good at making decisions outside of her medical kit. Those choices were easy: this leg is broken, set it; this child needs medicine, give it to her; this man is dying, save him. But when people's way of life and reputations were on the line? The choice should never be up to her.

Fergus seemed unaware of her internal struggle. "Don't worry about it, and try not to think of them. We have much to do here." He was squatting in the dust next to what Lamb had posited to be the easternmost wall of the structure.

She nodded and crouched down beside him. Fergus flourished the brush in his right hand expertly, using his left, false hand to steady himself on the ground. Claire had never been quite sure how it had happened, and Fergus had never spoken of it directly, but she could guess. She'd heard of the punishment for stealing in more of the unsavory parts of Cairo. If the rumors were true, Fergus was lucky to still have one good hand left.

They broke for lunch soon enough and took refuge in John's tent.

"No scrapes for you to tend to yet, eh Beauchamp?" John asked with a smile as he handed her a glass of whisky less than a finger-full. "To breaking ground?"

She raised her glass and nodded, taking a sip. John sat at his desk next to the cot where he slept, his back to Claire who sat in a chair across the tent.

"How's the papyrus coming along?" Claire asked.

"Hmm?" John asked, clearly distracted. "Oh, it's coming along. Slowly." John's voice sounded far away.

During the war, John had met a man named Hector Dalrymple who had, in John's words, "inspired him" to study antiquities. He had died the year before John had been hired by Lamb. John had taken up the work, translating the papyrus Hector had picked up in Luxor before the war. It had mostly been love poetry. It had been a little more than a monthly ritual for Claire to find him drunk off his arse and crying over the ancient scraps of paper. She was not so naive to assume that these antics were brought on by scholarly frustration, but if John didn't want to talk about it, she wouldn't push it. She just carefully laid the papers into a drawer, put the glasses away, and led John to bed, forcing him to drink some water before tucking him in.

It had been quite a change for their roles to be reversed in the past few months. Though, John had never punched her in the nose while she tried to wrestle him into bed. And it was in that moment–looking at him from across the tent–that Claire realized she and John were both fulfilling the dreams of their dead loved ones.

_Quite the pair we make,_ she thought to herself as she sipped her drink.

Despite it only being the first day of the new season, Claire's thoughts drifted to the next year and the one after that, if only abstractly. If not for Lamb's extensive notes, she would have been at a loss for where to dig this season. What about next year? The Antiquities Department had made it very clear that if no major finding was discovered at the Behribu site, it would most certainly be closed from further excavations. Lamb himself had scoffed at this notion.

_"It's all stuff and nonsense, my dear. What does St. Germaine care where I decide to play in the dirt?" _He had said. But it had been easy for Lamb to say that, he had acclaim and connections to the British Museum as well as the Egyptian Antiquities Department. They had allowed her this one year in memory of him, but what of next year? Would she even be able to secure a site?

Or, more accurately, would John be able to secure a site and let Claire tag along. What if John didn't want to go next year? Surely he would be able to move onto anything now that his mentor had died. Fergus too. She felt lost, quite literally, in the middle of the desert, with only the faintest hope for water behind the next sand dune.

A throat cleared and she looked up to see a young woman standing at the tent flap. She wore a button-up dress belted at the waist with trousers beneath and brown boots. A large straw hat with a brim sheltered her face from the hot sun.

"Excuse me," she said. "But I'm lookin' for a Miss Beauchamp, are ye she?"

It seemed almost comical to even ask, as they were the only European women most likely within 100 miles.

"You must be Miss MacKimmie, you may call me Claire, please. Come in and close the tent flap behind you."

The young woman eyed the other two adults carefully and stepped in. John had looked up when she came in, but had returned to his work. It was unlike him to be so unsociable, but Claire assumed he was onto something with his papyrus. Lamb often got into similar moods, sometimes even for days on end.

"That's John Grey over there," Claire explained as she produced a chair for the young lady to sit on. "You must excuse him for shunting himself in the corner thus, he is in the middle of unearthing the dead."

John snorted at her from his place in the corner but otherwise did not respond.

"What can I do for you, Miss MacKimmie? We were just about to have lunch, Fergus should be back any moment now with it, will you eat with us?"

The young woman colored at her words and shook her head. "Ye needn't trouble yerself, I just- well-" She wrung her hands. "Mr. Fraser was kind enough to say I could come to you if I needed help and-"

"Do you need medical attention then? My kit is in my tent but I could-"

"No, please, I just needed to get away from the other camp is all. And, well, there isna much else to go, is there?"

Claire nodded but quirked an eyebrow. "What is it about the other camp that you need to get away?"

She blushed and looked down. "The men," she said bluntly. "Not all of them, mind ye. Mr. Fraser is very kind to me, he's my cousin, ye see. But-"

"But he cannot always be around to guard and guide you?" Claire finished, all too aware of what some men could be like on digs. She wasn't sure if it was the sun or the low proximity to civilization that caused men to lose all sense of propriety and manners, but it had always been a problem too big to correct.

She nodded demurely.

"Well, I don't see a problem with letting you take refuge here for now. It's only us three and the diggers in our little camp."

Just then Fergus returned, laden with plates for the three of them. Miss MacKimmie shot up to her feet like a lightning bolt when he entered. Claire stared at her and then back to Fergus.

"Ah, I was not aware we had a guest." He placed the plates on the table where Claire and Miss MacKimmie sat, and brushed his hand on the front of his pants before offering his hand. "Fergus Beauchamp, at your service, madame." She noticed Fergus moved his left arm behind his back.

Miss MacKimmie seemed incapable of speech so Claire stepped in.

"Fergus, this is Miss Marsali MacKimmie, she's the illustrator for the other camp. She's come here to get away from unsavory male company."

"Not that I find all male company to be unwelcome!" Miss MacKimmie seemed to have found her voice quite suddenly. "Just- some."

Fergus nodded good naturedly. "I will go get another plate, you may have mine. Please, do not wait on my account."

As he exited, Miss MacKimmie fell back into her chair. Claire happily began to dig into her food, eyeing the young woman.

"I've always found an accent to be quite attractive in a man, if you don't mind me saying Miss MacKimmie, now that it's just us girls."

The young woman's eyes trailed over to John at her words, but Claire kept talking. "My first love was a Belgian lad when I was twelve. Something about that French accent. What do you think, Miss MacKimmie?"

"Oh leave the poor girl alone," John called, teasingly. "Some of us have not grown as hardhearted and cynical as you."

"Are you going to eat with us or are you going to continue to moon over ancient love poems?"

"I don't moon, and I'll be there in a second."

The tent flap rustled and a deep voice cleared their throat. Claire glanced up and then straightened up at the site.

"Marsali, what the devil do ye think ye're doing here?" Mr. Fraser growled, casting a glance at the women seated at the table, to John at the desk, and finally to the two cots lined up across the tent. "It isna proper for ye to be in a man's tent. Even with- another woman." His voice faltered.

She hadn't even considered the propriety of Miss MacKimmie's presence–or even her own–in what was essentially John and Fergus's room. Perhaps she was too quick to judge men's actions in the middle of the desert.

"You must forgive us, Mr. Fraser," Claire finally said. "We do not have a common area tent and prefer to eat together out of the hot sun."

His gaze fell on Claire. "Then ye must set up an umbrella or awning for an eating area."

"Jesus H. Roosevelt, quite the big spender, what do you say John? Should we buy food next time or an umbrella big enough for the three of us to eat under?"

John grunted and Claire rolled her eyes.

"While you're here, Mr. Fraser, would you be so kind as to lend your linguistic abilities to our man John so he can eat before going back under the hot sun, Doctor's orders."

Mr. Fraser seemed like he was about to protest before she mentioned linguistics. "What does he require help with?"

John glared at her. "A number of years ago I acquired some papyrus. There is no rhyme or reason for the various hieroglyphics between them. I have a hunch they were looted from various tombs before they finally ended up in my hands."

"Well, I'd be delighted to take a look if ye'd like."

"It really isn't necessary, Mr. Fraser-"

"Mr. Grey, it would be my pleasure."

John seemed at a loss for words and nodded. "Alright, I must admit a few of the cartouches are a bit out of the ordinary."

Mr. Fraser smirked good-heartedly and nodded. "Allow me to lend my expertise, but later, if ye wouldn't mind. Perhaps at suppertime? I have a few volumes I could bring with me, Petrie and the like. For now, we must be goin'. Come, Marsali, Dougal was lookin' for ye."

Miss MacKimmie exchanged a glance with Claire before standing and walking over to her cousin.

"Good day to you both," Mr Fraser bid them as they left.

Claire jumped up and went to the tent flap, lifting it up.

"Mr. Fraser!"

He turned back, the heat seemingly making the air around him waver. His tan skin gleamed in the sun and his blue eyes seemed all the more striking underneath his hat.

"The invitation for supper extends to both you and Miss MacKimmie. We shall expect you both after the work is done, here, in this tent."

He glanced at the young woman beside him and nodded before turning away to the other camp.

* * *

Claire stared at the two men hunched over the bits of ancient paper, eyes peering across the rim of her glass of whisky. She had tried to engage in conversation with Fergus and Miss MacKimmie, but had soon realized that they were not inclined in doing anything beyond polite comments about the weather and stealing glances at one another. She had noticed the young woman's eyes lingering on Fergus's left arm, but if she was at all disturbed by the false appendage, she made no mention of it. Between them and the scholars in the corner, Claire found herself quite alone.

She soon got up and crossed the room, peering over John's shoulder at the work.

"Any progress?" She asked.

"See for yourself," John said, handing his open journal over his shoulder to her, his finger marking the spot.

Claire read over the lines and nodded. "It's very…well, perilous, wouldn't you say?"

"Read it out loud, if it pleases ye." Mr. Fraser turned back to look at her, leaning back against the desk. "Poetry deserves to be read out loud, does it no'?"

Claire smiled and nodded. She took a step back, dramatically and held the book out as if she was preparing to read a dramatic monologue from Hamlet.

_"The love of my beloved is on yonder side_

_A width of water is between us_

_And a crocodile waiteth on the sandbank."_

Mr. Fraser's eyes did not leave Claire as she spoke, the glass of watered down whisky at his lips to hide a small smirk. She glanced back up at him over the book, his eyes washing over her and causing her stomach to churn. She wondered to herself whether his was the gaze of the beloved or the crocodile? And which one would she have feared more.

John threw back the rest of his drink and held out his hand for his notebook, breaking the spell. She handed it back to him.

"Do you think that's the first time that poem has been read out loud since the time of the Pharaohs?" Fergus asked from across the room.

"What an honor it is then, to be here when it is," Miss MacKimmie answered him.

"Quite the sentiment," John's voice sounded far away.

"What do you think, Miss Beauchamp?" Mr. Fraser asked.

She shrugged her shoulders. "Well, our modern interpretation is quite different from what the ancient one would be."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Aye?"

She nodded. "Yes, the crocodile on the sandbank seems to us to make it the tale of 'forbidden, star-crossed lovers,' trope. Most would mention Romeo and Juliet."

"But ye'd beg to differ?" The mirth did not leave his eyes.

"The Ancient Egyptians, would beg to differ, Mr. Fraser. The crocodile is meant to show the strength of the man, it is implied he will triumph over the beast and is therefore stronger than a crocodile."

"As ye say." Mr. Fraser placed his glass on the desk and crossed his arms over his chest.

Claire narrowed her eyes at him. "What? Do you have a different interpretation?"

He shrugged. "It isna in my mind to infer what the words of a long dead man may or may not mean. I merely make the knowledge accessible and let the intellectuals rabble about it."

John scoffed. "And do you not consider yourself to be an intellectual?"

He smirked. "All I mind is the connection, ye ken? To the man. We often think ourselves so mighty and civilized compared to the ancients. But to see these words and in them the reflections of emotions we too experience." His words were emphatic, passionate. He looked up at Claire, the strength of his words reflected in the depths of his eyes. "Do we not feel the same yearning to be with the ones we love?"

It was getting late and the two Scots bid goodnight to their companions. Claire walked out with them on the way to her tent. Mr. Fraser eyed her as she dropped the tent flap behind her.

"Ye dinna need to see us out, we ken the way right enough," he told her.

"I'm glad you think that. I'm not seeing you out, I'm going to my tent."

His eyebrows raised for a moment before he schooled his features. "Aye, as ye say." It was hard to tell in the dim light, but she swore she could see some color staining his face as well.

"What, did you think I shared one with Mr. Grey?"

He made a noise in the back of his throat with an eye at Miss MacKimmie, who was doing her best to look like she wasn't eavesdropping. "I have no right to pass judgement on strangers."

She scoffed. "It is true that we may ignore certain rules of propriety out here in the middle of nowhere, but a body has a right to privacy, don't you agree?"

"Aye, I do."

"And not all of us are so desperate for company of the opposite sex. It takes a great deal more than cheap whisky and ancient scraps of paper."

The smile that so often graced his features when they spoke returned. As did the heat in her stomach that made her delirious with déjà vu. "I'll keep that in mind, Miss Beauchamp." His eyes sparkled in the low light of the stars overhead.

She all but ran into her tent and closed the flap behind her.


End file.
